Chapter 3

Ethan checked into a modest hotel near the hospital.

The room was small, anonymous, but it was his.

He spent the first few days organizing his visa application for Germany, emailing with the fellowship coordinator.

It felt good to be focused on his own future, his own needs.

His phone, however, kept buzzing.

Texts from Izzy.

"Ethan, where are the quarterly tax files? Sarah can' t find them."

"The plumber needs to fix the guest bathroom sink. Can you call him?"

"Did you remember to confirm the Hayes Foundation gala guest list?"

She was still operating as if he were her highly efficient, unpaid personal assistant.

As if nothing had changed.

As if he hadn' t handed her divorce papers.

The obliviousness was staggering.

Then came the call from Chloe, Izzy' s younger sister.

"Ethan? Izzy's looking for you. What the hell is wrong with you? She needs those gala confirmations. Stop sulking and get back here."

Chloe had always disliked him, viewing him as a gold-digging burden on her brilliant sister.

"I'm not 'sulking,' Chloe. And I no longer work for Izzy."

His newfound assertiveness surprised even himself.

"What? Don't be ridiculous. Marcus is here, by the way. He says you' re probably just overwhelmed with your hospital duties."

Marcus. Of course.

The subtle guilt-tripping, the feigned understanding.

"Tell Marcus his concern is touching but unnecessary," Ethan said, his voice cold. "And tell Izzy to check her desk. She signed the relevant papers."

"What papers? The adoption forms Sophia keeps pushing? Izzy said she signed them. Honestly, Ethan, you' re being so dramatic."

He hung up.

He wouldn't be drawn into their drama anymore.

He was no longer Mr. Isabella Hayes. He was Dr. Ethan Cole, and he had a life to build.

The word "home" in Chloe' s tirade had meant the Hayes penthouse. It had never been his home.

A final text from Izzy flashed on his screen.

"Ethan, if you don' t get back here by tonight and sort out this gala mess, I' ll have your hospital privileges reviewed. Don' t test me."

A threat. Her usual tactic.

He typed a brief reply: "I believe you' ll find that difficult, Izzy. We' re divorced."

He then blocked her number, and Chloe' s.

A small, bitter smile played on his lips.

He thought of the years wasted, the surgical skills dulled by administrative tasks for Izzy and her family.

The potential he' d let languish.

Regret was a heavy cloak, but he was slowly shrugging it off.